


A Glimpse

by convolutedConcussion



Series: Everything is Whitman and Nothing Hurts [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Kinda Fluffy, Kinda Neither, Kinda Romantic, M/M, hand-holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 10:44:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A glimpse, through an interstice caught,<br/>Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room, around the stove,<br/>late of a winter night--And I unremark'd seated in a corner;<br/>Of a youth who loves me, and whom I love, silently approaching, and<br/>seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand;<br/>A long while, amid the noises of coming and going--of drinking and<br/>oath and smutty jest,<br/>There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little,<br/>perhaps not a word. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Glimpse

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Whitman's poem A Glimpse.
> 
> Basically I've accepted that I'm going to literary hell so I figured I might as well do it while being pretentious and trying to be artistic.

It's not the kind of place he expected, really. It's dirty and crowded, full of gruff, working-class men. It's loud. Erik unwinds his scarf upon entering. At least it's warm. He stops at the bar for a beer, knowing a good German brew is too much to ask for, and takes it to a table in the far back corner of the room. The stool is rough, fragile, and it feels as if it may fall apart at any moment beneath him. He sits straight-backed, ever aware of his surroundings, as he waits. His eyes rarely seem to waver from the door for the one he knows will enter. It's strange, he's only known the man for a few months but he knows he will come.

The door opens and deposits a touseled brunette followed closely by a gust of icy wind. The man looks younger than he is, younger than he has any right to, younger than any would think he could look, taking what he knows and what Erik now knows he must have seen of the world into account. His coat is close-fitted, expensive, but his scarf is big, possibly handmade. It's dark blue and wrapped lumpily under his chin. (Erik would never admit that he thinks he looks adorable like this, cheeks and nose pink from the chilly gusts outside and hair blown all over, blue eyes bright and eager.) Two fingers brush his pale temple almost imperceptibly before he pushes his hair back as if to smooth it, intense gaze honing easily in on Erik. The crowd seems to part for him--perhaps it does, the telepath has thus far been a bit whimsical in his morals as far as they extend to his gift, after all--and he steps eagerly forward. He wraps friendly arms around Erik's waist as the taller man tries not to think about how easily his head fits just so under his chin.

"Charles," he sighs, sitting. The other follows in suit, smile falling a little as he gives Erik an apologetic look. The metallokinetic simply shakes his head, content in the fact that he is there. A hand, warm and soft, covers his under the table and Erik almost jerks away. He looks up, looks around, a warning pressing in on his lips, but instead lets himself be content in the simple contact. He has the strangest feeling that the two of them have been quite forgotten by the others in the bar anyway.

The men around them shout and laugh, drink and joke. They quarrel, they threaten. Erik watches Charles. Smiling happily and still holding gently onto Erik's hand, he reaches forward with his other to take the other's beer. Charles sips it, surely used to better but not allowing a single hint of distaste to cross his features. Erik finds himself very near happy in this moment, happy just to sit here with this man, holding his hand and watching him, being near him.

Lines he once read by an American poet cross his mind and he focuses on them, finding them peculiarly suited for just this situation. Charles frowns, cocking his head. He asks without opening his lips and so, as to not break their silent camaraderie, Erik taps his temple. It's a temporary grant of permission, one he knows must make Charles happy. There's a rush of warmth that isn't his flooding his mind for a moment before he feels it, the gentlest tendril, like the gentle caress of a finger across his consciousness. It's unnervingly familiar. He offers up the poem almost as a gift and he watches Charles' expression shift from one of perplexity to one close to elation. It's beautiful and blinding and in that moment Erik thinks he would probably do anything, abandon anything, say anything just to make him look like this again.

"Oh, _love_ ," the telepath whispers, looking down at their joined hands.


End file.
